The house breathed differently at 2 AM.
Amaya stood in the hallway outside his bedroom, her heart pounding violently against her chest, her body bare beneath the silk robe she'd stolen from his closet.
Three days since they’d f****d in the kitchen. Three days of him avoiding her, locking himself in his study, leaving the house at dawn and returning after midnight.
But her mother was still in Tuscany. And Amaya was done waiting.
She tried the handle — unlocked. He'd forgotten, or he'd hoped, or he simply didn't care anymore. The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing the master suite in moonlight.
The bed was massive, canopied, and he occupied the center, sprawled on his back, one arm thrown above his head, the sheet tangled around his waist.
His chest rose and fell with deep,
